


Nice Holystone and Jacuzzi Splot Awkwardly Continue to Keep Their Relationship Professional, Despite Explosions of A Quiet and Emotional Sort

by deadcellredux



Category: Baccano!
Genre: 1920s, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, Gangsters, Gen, Meta, Prohibition, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcellredux/pseuds/deadcellredux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s always got you. You’ve always got him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice Holystone and Jacuzzi Splot Awkwardly Continue to Keep Their Relationship Professional, Despite Explosions of A Quiet and Emotional Sort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [r_lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/gifts).



> Hello, and happy Yuletide! :D Let me start off by saying that I fell in love with each and every one of your prompts for Cowboy Bebop AND Baccano!, and it was INCREDIBLY hard for me to decide which to write. I started on and subsequently gave up on many things, and though I was at first focused on writing a Claire/Chane fic, after re-watching Baccano! I ultimately decided to go with Nice and Jacuzzi (and a story about them as children... and slightly beyond). I love this pairing to death, and I feel like what I've written here doesn't do justice to ALL OF MY FEELS or all of this pairing's potential, but I hope that you enjoy it, regardless! Writing this fic made me realize that there is still SO MUCH I want to say about these characters and so much I'd love to write about them, and I thank you and your prompts for that! I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it (my Nice/Jacuzzi feels: let me show you them).
> 
> Related note: this is the first Baccano! fic I've ever written, despite the anime being one of my favorite canons and cast of characters <3
> 
> ...I'm not sure that this fic is canonically accurate; I haven't read the light novels and I've only seen the anime, so let that be a disclaimer! I also couldn't find a concrete answer regarding Nice and Jacuzzi's ages (and a lot of what I found didn't really make sense when factoring in the whole "dating for ten years" thing), so I just figured for the sake of this fic that they're in their early 20's when aboard the Flying Pussyfoot in 1931.
> 
> I'm also not sure that this is entirely accurate in a historical sense, so take any historical details thrown in there with a grain of flavorful salt. There just wasn't enough time to do all the reasearch that I wound up delving into!

*****  
1929  
*****

The old warehouse isn’t exactly the type of joint you expected the loot to be stashed in; for a moment, you wonder if you’re even at the right place. It’s run down and easy to break into. The deadbolt rips free from the rotting wood of the doorframe with little more than a heave of your shoulder against the door.

You expected a bit more of the Aiellos; so far, this is a piece of cake. Then again, what you’re after isn’t exactly the type of thing most folks would consider treasure— but to you, right now, it’s worth almost more than gold.

Some of Jacuzzi’s guys are outside waiting for you, armed and wandering the perimeter while you check out the situation inside. To the naked eye, you look defenseless. In truth, you figure you’re armed with enough hidden explosives to demolish a city block.

You spot it— a tower of stacked, locked crates that you can only assume contain what you’ve come for. You asses the situation; empty building, target in sight, easy getaway—

You whirl around at the sound of movement behind you, expecting to find one of Aiello’s thugs, but it’s only Jacuzzi. Jacuzzi, of course—

“I thought I told you to wait outside?” you whisper. He’s looking panicked. You look around you again, and once more noting that the coast is currently clear, you put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve got this,” you say.

“I’ve got a _real_ bad feeling about this,” he whispers back.

“You always say that. Come on, gimme a hand here eh?” You turn back to the crates, looking them up and down, trying to figure out the easiest way to remove and carry out as many as possible, in as short a time as you can—

“Since when are you such a thrill-seeker huh? I dunno why you thought this was a good idea—“

“Since when _ain’t_ I a thrill-seeker?” you shake your head and tsk-tsk at him. “Jacuzzi, baby, you should know me better than that—“

Truth be told, he knows you quite well. You know he knows this stuff, but he’s a worrier, always has been, and sometimes you think he cares about you way more than is healthy. It’s something you’re still trying to get used to, much in the way you’re still trying to get used to the way he looks at you sometimes, the weird shivers you get when he touches you. You figure most of it is just all that crazy teenage stuff you’ve heard about, but you like to think you’ve no time for that. There are more important things out there, bigger and brighter things to achieve, and some of those things are sitting right in front of you right now—

There’s a gunshot outside, and then another, and you hear gruff voices, yelling, a scuffle. Something slams against the wall nearest you, from outside. You know it was a body.

“Oh no!” Jacuzzi pants. “Oh no oh no Nice we gotta get outta here!”

“Shit,” you mutter, torn between the choice of carrying out what you intended to do or calming down Jacuzzi. You find yourself in this position often, these days. “Jacuzzi, listen, just grab one end of this box here, we can carry it out—“

Gunshots rip through the very door you entered, and you can hear one of them whiz right by your ear. The two of you drop to the ground, and by the sounds of what’s going on, you reluctantly accept the fact that you won’t be carrying anything out of here, after all. You can hear Jacuzzi start to sniffle, and you know that it’s not out fear—well, not _typical_ fear, anyway. You know that he’s just terrified of losing _you_.

“Nevermind,” you mutter. “Let’s go.”

His hand, hot and trembling, finds yours and holds tight. “Okay, I gotcha, we’ll get outta here…” tears are streaming down his face, unrestrained, pooling under his chin and soaking into the collar of his shirt.

“No sweat,” you say, even though your heart is pounding so hard that you can almost feel your blood pulsing through every inch of your veins, though you’re trying not to shake. You know despite it all that you’re both determined, that you’ve both got a will to fight and succeed and _live_ , so strong that it fuels you both.

You make a run for it, bullets sparking and ricocheting around you. You hear him let out a sob, and when Aiello’s men start to pour in through the door behind you, screaming and firing and making a racket, you’ve already got the bomb lit and ready, and you toss it behind you. You don’t have to aim your throw; you mixed the thing up yesterday, and you know it’s strong enough to ignite this whole building. Jacuzzi picks up a stool as you run past it— _luck’s on our side_ , you think—he throws it at a window with a half-scream, half-sob, and the two of you jump through, heedless of the broken glass tearing into your skin, tumbling forward on the pavement, getting up and running, stumbling forward from the force of the blast behind you only a few seconds later, the heavy smell of burnt sugar filling the air around you. 

Somehow, you never once let go of one another’s hands.

He’s always got you. You’ve always got him.

*****  
** 1926  
***  


“Can I see?” Jacuzzi asks you.

“Nah,” you say, and you can feel the defensive quickening of your pulse. 

“Come on,” Jacuzzi prods, and you can tell in your heart that he means no ill-will. He’s just honestly _curious_ , and it makes you want to give in, even if just a little. Though you’ve healed a bit, sharing this part of yourself still seems a bit too intimate, even if he is your best friend. Even if he does have a gigantic, terrible tattoo on his face, still raw and healing, skin around the outline pulled pink and tight over his cheekbone. You still can’t believe he went and got that thing, but you try not to think about it too much, because the complete selflessness and blind empathy of the act— _all for you_ —makes your eyes sting and the back of your throat ache.

He laughs. “If I’m ever gonna be as bad a gangster as Capone, I gotta be able to handle seeing something like this, huh?”

You wave his nervous statement off with a hand. “Nah. Hey listen, I’m like Frankenstein, alright? Nothin’ you can’t see in a scary picture.”

“You’re too pretty to be Frankenstein,” he replies, sheepishly, and for a second you worry that he’s about to start crying. He does that a lot—crying—and you can’t quite understand it, because you never cry, ever. The only time was when _this_ happened, when—

“Ah, well, never mind then. Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable,” he says, and smiles. He leans back on his palms, looks up at the skyline from his vantage point on your apartment’s fire escape. “Did I tell you that the new batch is great?” a smile grows across his face as he looks up at the stars. “Whiskey. Tastes good. Well I mean, good as any hooch can taste, anyhow.”

You’re not sure if he’s derailed the topic on purpose or not; either way his easy dismissal of your refusal to show him what he’s asking for makes you bold. You feel a sudden spark of bravery, a desire to share this with him, and you steel yourself.

“You think you’re brave enough to see?”

He turns to look at you then, wide-eyed and off-guard. “Huh?”

“Look,” you say, and you lean closer, push your hair back from your face and lift the wide, thick bandage that serves as both eye patch and protective covering for half of your face.

He stares, silently, expression unchanging. You wait a few seconds, imagining what it must be like to see, for the first time, this hideous wreck you’ve been seeing in the mirror for weeks now. The red, raw skin, the empty socket where your eye should be, the twisted, misshapen flesh— 

Your thoughts are interrupted when he leans forward and hugs you, tightly. You shiver when you feel his mouth move, speaking your name against the skin of your neck. 

He tells you, as the first wet warmth of his tears touches your skin, that you’re the bravest, most gosh-darn beautiful dame he’s ever dreamed of knowing.

*****  
** 1930  
***  


The pop of corks from champagne bottles sounds almost like a barrage of gunshots, and you shiver. It’s New Year’s Eve, and your gang is celebrating like the world is all yours. You’ve worked up to pulling enough weight in Chicago that times are currently bright as a flare, though stealing business from the Russos has been risky, and you’re hoping to get found out later rather than sooner. The stock market crash has caused a bit of a hit to the flow of bootlegging, but you’re not worried. Not tonight, anyway.

[West End Blues](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W232OsTAMo8) is currently playing on the Victrola, and it’s appropriate background noise to the revelrous scene around you, glasses clinking and liquor flowing. You’ve finally made it big, you think, you’re finally something—you’re no Lillian Gish or Clara Bow, but you’re famous in your own right, and you feel talented in your expertise of explosives, loved by this crew, and beautiful in your own way, but that’s mostly thanks to Jacuzzi—

Jacuzzi, who plops down next to you where you’re sitting, liquor sloshing over the edge of his glass. He moves close like he wants to put his arm around you, but he doesn’t, of course. You’re not surprised by that; you’ve been flitting around each other for years now, insparable, like two curious moths incapable of realizing that they’re also both made out of fire. 

Lately, though, you mostly talk business.

“Great, huh?” he raises his glass and you meet it with your own. The _clink_ is loud when they touch, and you can’t help but smile. You love this holiday, as you love most things flashy, showy, _loud_. “I don’t wanna jinx things, but it seems like we’ve finally made it.”

“Yeah,” you agree, and when you nod, the room feels a bit fuzzy. 

You lean in, your face close to his, and his eyes widen a bit, but he doesn’t pull back. “You know, Jacuzzi… you’re kinda like a bomb,” you say. The liquor’s gone to your head a bit, but you don’t care. Not right now, when you’re surrounded by friends, family, a place you can call _home_. Not when you’ve got something important to tell your best friend in the whole damned world. 

At least, you _think_ its important, but that might be the gin speaking.

“Maybe a little bomb,” you say, letting the gin ponder aloud, “but a bomb for sure.”

“Like a bad movie or something?”

“No! Just explosive. Fiery.” You take another sip, and he waits, wide-eyed, for you to finish your thought. “You’ve always been that way. Just… always waiting for the right moment to suck in that fuse of yours.”

“I have a fuse?” he squeaks.

You laugh. “Figuratively, yeah. You just… you’re all right, Jacuzzi. You’re strong. You got heart in there. You’ll… you’re a bomb ‘cause you’ll blow up for your friends. That’s why they love ya.” 

Yeah—that’s it. The gin definitely worked that one out pretty well with your brain.

Jacuzzi’s brow furrows as he looks away, then into his drink. For a moment he looks like a child, the ambitious, yet then-unaccomplished kid you once sat with on your fire escape, begging to see your burns so that he could be a _real gangster_. 

The memory makes something inside you twist and hurt suddenly, somehow, though you can’t quite understand why—

“I’m not strong at all,” Jacuzzi says, finally. “I’m not much of anything, really. I’m just… well you and the guys believe in me, so…”

You put your drink down on the table in front of you, then, and you wrap your arms around him, pull him close, so that you can take in his warmth and the familiar smell of his hair and the liquor on his breath and that fiery, uncontested spirit that you equate with gunpowder, and you hold him.

“Uh, Nice… “ he mutters, tensing for a moment, but you don’t let go. He relaxes and then he puts his hands on you, gently, on the arms you now leave bare, the scarred skin there. 

The guys in the gang once told you that they made you look _hard_ and _mean_ and _ain’t nobody gonna mess with a doll got scars like that_ , and Jacuzzi had said _nobody’s gonna mess with Nice, because she’s Nice, and she’s my friend, and nobody messes with my friends._

“You’re gonna do big things, Jacuzzi,” you say, and the liquor’s making you feel warm and pliant as you talk into the soft fabric of his collar, smell the scent of his cologne. “You’ll be as big as Capone. I believe it.”

You pull back as he opens his mouth to speak, and you silence him—not with your mouth (though you suddenly want to)—but with your fingers, as you lightly press them against his lips. He looks at you, and you stare back at him, and at that moment a new crescendo rises up as one of the guys raises a toast.

“To the bosses!” the room echoes, and attention’s on the both of you for a second as there are handshakes and back-claps and one of the guys spills a little bit of his drink on you when he leans in for a hug, but you don’t mind in the least.

Earlier that day, you’d overheard Donny referring to you as _Jacuzzi’s girl_ , and your concentration was so jarred that you almost dropped a vial of nitroglycerin. You’d paused for a moment, trying to regain focus on your work, but then you’d heard Jacuzzi’s voice, high and defensive, _pointed_ , saying something you couldn’t entirely make out except for the phrase _her name is Nice, you know her name is Nice, call her by her name alright_ , and after that you couldn’t quite make out anything, because the roiling thoughts in your head were louder than any eavesdropped voice through a flimsy wall could ever be. 

So it’s rather ironic, then, when it’s Donny who stumbles, drunkenly, into you and Jacuzzi just seconds after midnight, when you’re clinging so closely to one another after the year’s final round of boisterous celebration (and Jacuzzi’s a terrible dancer, but you don’t really care—though that might have been just his undoubtable anxiety over the fact that [the song you asked him to dance to was a bit suggestive](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3M4KHAerOI)) that you think the unthinkable might finally happen—

but instead the three of you tumble down in a heap, Jacuzzi on top of you, and when he sees that you’ve cut your arm against the edge of a cabinet on your way down, he starts to cry.

You never get to ask him whether or not you’re really his girl.

You figure, in your half-drunk daze on the floor with Jacuzzi fussing over you and yelling about bandages, that you’ll just have to try again next year.

Maybe you’ll finally ask for a smooch, while you’re at it.

*****  
1925  
*****

When you first spot the kid, he’s got his back to a wall, hunched over, crying into his hands a bit too loudly for a boy his age—which, when you finally see his face, seems to be pretty close to yours. He’s covered in blood and his knuckles are bruised, and your curiosity gets the best of you.

“Hey uh, ‘scuse me…” you say as you approach, and he jumps.

“Oh no,” he steps away, looking horrified. “Don’t tell me he sent you!” he starts to cry harder. “Oh God, I can’t hit a girl! Oh no, why would you—”

“Hey!” you shout, interrupting him. You’ve only ever seen girls in films get this hysterical, and it’s kind of awkward. “Stop that! Nobody sent me. I just happened to see you here, and wanted to see if you’re okay—“

“I’m fine!” he cries, and turns his face away, wiping his eyes with a sleeve stained by fresh blood. “I’m fine.”

“Someone jump you?”

“No,” he says, breath heaving. “Other… other way around. It’s terrible. It’s just terrible.”

“Oh,” you say, and now you’re really confused. You’ve never seen this kid around your neighborhood, and now your interest is piqued. “Well you musta done a real number on the guy…”

“I did! It was horrible. But him and his guys beat up on one of my friends the other day, and I saw him, and I just… I just got really angry.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” you say, stepping closer, and you don’t know why you’re talking to him right now—you really don’t. Your pops sent you to pick up a pack of smokes for him from the shop a couple blocks away, and you think the reason you’re so intrigued is because you’re bored, maybe. Bored, and don’t have a lot of friends, and you’re a bit fascinated by all of that blood. _This kid can’t be a gangster_ , you think to yourself. _Can’t be, not sobbing and sputtering like that…_

“I guess,” he sniffles, and it seems he’s finally starting to calm down. He looks into your eyes.

“I’m Jacuzzi,” he says, though you didn’t ask his name.

“I’m Nice,” you offer, and in a strange, very quiet way, you feel like something is beginning.

“Sorry we have to meet like this. Uh, I’m new around here, and uh…”

“I figured,” you say. 

“Trying to make a name for myself,” he continues. “You know? Just me and my guys here on the streets. You live around here?”

Not a gangster. Definitely not.

“Yeah,” you say. “Block that way. Just out picking up some smokes.”

“Oh? Hey, listen, it’s not right for a lady to have to see something so gruesome, so uh, let me uh, here…” he reaches into his pockets, and you wait. “Nabbed some stuff off the guy. He had a pack… ah, okay.”

He produces a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes, and looks rather pleased with himself until he realizes that they’re also stained with blood. “Aww no,” he groans, rubbing at the bloodstains on the cigarette pack. It’s no use; the paper’s soaked through, and this time you’re just really confused by the tears that start to roll down his flushing cheeks. “Sorry, I uh, sorry I can’t give a lady something like this—“

“It’s okay,” you say. “Don’t worry about it, just uh, I appreciate the gesture. Seriously, it’s alright.”

“Here,” he says, sounding suddenly determined. He roughly wipes his tears on his sleeve before digging into his pockets again. He pulls out a wad of cash, and your eyes widen.

“Picked _this_ off the guy too. Here, take it! At least let the pack be on me, huh? I uh, wanna be a gentleman you know…” he holds out several bills, and your eyes widen. It’s probably enough to cover _ten_ packs of cigarettes. Your family isn’t overly well-off, but you live comfortably; money of your own to spend how you wish, however, is not something you often come by.

“Oh, I, I couldn’t…” you begin to stammer.

“Take it!” he cries, and adds another bill to the handful. He’s blushing so hard now that you figure his face must feel like its on fire. “Here, have some extra. Buy somethin’ for yourself, too… you know, whatever it is that pretty girls like you like to buy.”

“Explosives,” you say, before you can stop yourself, and then you feel your own face begin to flush. 

His eye twitches. “Ex… _splosives_?”

“Uh, yeah. Just a… just a little hobby, ya know…”

“Ah… oh,” he says, and you take the money from his hand. He stares at you thoughtfully for a moment. “You make bombs and stuff, huh?”

You’re wary now, not sure of how much you should reveal—partly because your interests aren’t very ladylike (as your parents constantly remind you when you talk about chemistry and science) and partly because you’re not sure who this guy might know. 

For some inexplicable reason, however, you trust him. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Well then.” He smiles. “I make liquor. Sounds like we both got some sketchy hobbies, huh?”

Your thoughts churn. Okay, so maybe he _is_ a gangster. An unlikely one, a young, small, scrawny, sloppily sobbing one, but—

“I gotta run,” he says, and he suddenly looks a bit more confident. “Maybe I’ll uh… see you around sometime?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I’ll uh, I’ll see you around, Jacuzzi. And thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, and smiles, and then he turns and goes.

Ten minutes later, the chemist at the supply shop is eyeing you with something between disbelief and contempt when you tell him what you’re looking for. When he sees the cash in your hand, however, he stops asking questions and wordlessly hands you what you came for.

That night, you make dynamite.

*****  
1927  
*****

He takes you for a drive out past the suburbs in a stolen car, and you let the breeze toss your hair away from your face when you roll the windows down. You’re not afraid to let him see all of you, the bad side of your face.

Not Jacuzzi—not your best friend.

You’ve got a cluster of cherry bombs and fireworks tied to you, under your shirt, and they bump and rattle against your skin as he drives over rough roads, up and down hills. There’s a comfortable silence now, now that you know one another’s secrets, now that you’ve agreed to join his gang. He _is_ a gangster (though quite a unique variety, that’s for sure) and you’d agreed to join his gang some time ago, agreed to continue your experiments and your powders and potions and explosives, because you’ve discovered that you do, indeed, have a very distinct place in Chicago.

When you reach the empty field, you pull over and exit the car to begin the preparations. You’ve agreed to test out this new batch with him, an inflammatory mix that you hope will be just as deadly as it is beautiful ( _like you_ , he’d said, but you tell yourself that you’re only focused on business).

When the setup is finished, you light the first flare, and then the two of you run, hand-in-hand (though you’re not entirely sure how _that_ happened, but he’s got your hand, and he’s not showing any sign of letting go) a suitable distance away. 

You both drop to the ground, and you wait.

There’s the noise—a loud, ferocious and terrifying _bang_ , and you squeeze your eyes shut. For a moment you feel fear ripple through your chest, a phantom pain in every scar and burn as you keep your eyes closed, and for a moment you want to run. Jacuzzi’s got your hand, though, and he holds it tight, squeezes at just the right moment, as if he can sense your apprehension.

You’re about to scream, about to break, but then he speaks.

“It’s beautiful,” he says into your ear, and his voice is louder than the explosions as the chain sets off. “Wow, look at that. It’s beautiful!”

You open your eyes.

The sky is a pattern of color, sprinkles of lights and flares. Your fear slowly dissolves into wonder and pride, and you squeeze his hand in return. 

As the two of you sit watching on the grass, the crackle and hiss of explosives begins to die down, and the sky clears, though the air still smells heavy with chemicals and gunpowder.

You can feel Jacuzzi looking at you, and you turn to meet his gaze.

“Hey uh, don’t take this the wrong way, but uh… I got a feeling you and I… I got a feeling we’re gonna be—“ and there’s a loaded pause that you don’t yet know you’ll remember for the rest of your life. 

“Together… forever. Sounds crazy, I know, but…” he’s flustered, and he looks down at the ground.

There’s a million things you want to ask and a million things you want to tell, but you keep them to yourself.

You only smile, and you nod, and you believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this fic makes reference to the [Aiello gang](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Aiello), who apparently sold sugar for bootlegging in Chicago in the 20's. Not sure that this timeline is historically accurate, but it worked well enough!
> 
> In case you didn't notice, I also love the idea that perhaps Nice and Jacuzzi have never become an "official" item because the both of them are just too shy to make the first move.
> 
> The last part was also very much inspired by [this random headcanon](http://baccanoheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/10542848044) which I found to be quite beautiful.
> 
> In addition to the songs linked within the fic, I also listened to these a lot while writing, so I figured I'd link them for some extra flavor: 
> 
> [St. Louis Blues, Bessie Smith](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Who6fTHJ34)
> 
>  [If I Had You, Rudy Vallee](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYKWXL-FnyM&list=PL94411427A34E4312)
> 
>  [The One That I Love Loves Me, Rudy Vallee](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPw6d6yOvC8&list=PL94411427A34E4312)
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
